


Charon

by ggrantaire



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alive Noah, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, and then..., but what if Noah's death was an accident AU, fluff and also Angst™, you already know the character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5891179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggrantaire/pseuds/ggrantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m Whelk,” he says, extending a hand.</p><p>Noah falters for a fraction of a second, but shakes his hand and dimly repeats, “Whelk?”</p><p>“Yeah… Barrington Whelk, but literally don’t call me that.” He looks over his shoulder, as though expecting to see someone there. “Whelk is fine.” Then he blinks at Noah, “Stupid name, I know.”</p><p>But Whelk had misinterpreted Noah’s expression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charon

Noah Czerny likes to keep his left wrist hidden, mostly just because it’s no one else’s business. He has a collection of leather cuffs with laces up the sides, which usually suffices, though sometimes long sleeves are enough, and sometimes he steals some of his older sister’s makeup when he’s feeling particularly ambitious.

But today was move-in day at Aglionby, his first day at Aglionby ever, his junior year, and so the morning had been pretty hectic. It was far too hot for long sleeves, and there’d been no time for makeup. His fingers fidget with the cuff, which he’d tied just a bit too tight.

Rachael—his aforementioned older sister, who doesn’t hide her wrist, who lets the world see the name printed into her skin in neat, spidery cursive—helps Noah move all his stuff into his room. They don’t know who his roommate is; the woman at the front desk had said they’d had a lot of last minute shifts in roommates and some returning students were still getting sorted between rooms. Noah had shrugged it off without further thought.

Around eight that night, however, there’s a knock at the door. Noah starts to sit up, uncurling from around his computer, but before he can get off his bed, the door swings open. The boy in the doorway is tall, olive skinned, with dark hair, dark eyes, and white teeth.

“Hey there,” he says as though he already knew Noah and had been expecting him.

“Hi,” Noah says, scrambling to his feet.

“I’m Whelk,” he says, extending a hand.

Noah falters for a fraction of a second, but shakes his hand and dimly repeats, “Whelk?”

“Yeah… Barrington Whelk, but literally don’t call me that.” He looks over his shoulder, as though expecting to see someone there. “Whelk is fine.” Then he blinks at Noah, “Stupid name, I know.”

But Whelk had misinterpreted Noah’s expression. Noah wasn’t thinking about the ridiculousness of his name because, in fact, he’d had more than enough time to get used to this name. Instead, he was thinking about the careful curve of the B that was etched on his inner-wrist, the slant of the W, the way the _i_ and the _t_ are dotted and crossed with the same stroke.

He replies quickly, “Nah, I’m Noah Czerny.” There’s the smallest question at the end of the remark, and Noah raises his eyebrows when Whelk responds without hesitation.

“A much better name!” He gives a laugh as he drops his hand, “Fucking respectable.” He shakes his head and then turns back to collect a suitcase from the hall. A woman with black hair to match his appears after a moment, says her niceties to Noah, but mostly ignores him. She doesn’t react to his name either. Whelk settles into the room without giving Noah too much attention.

He shows absolutely no sign of recognizing Noah’s name.

Barrington Whelk is wearing a sweater, which is fucking preposterous and Noah thinks he deserves his absurd name just for this fact alone. There’s no chance of Noah catching a glimpse of his wrist, at least not tonight. A _sweater_. God. It can’t be less than eighty degrees out, even if it is nighttime. No one in all of Virginia is wearing a sweater in August, at least not before Aglionby is in session.

Forty-five minutes later, Whelk has his side of the room in place, and he sits down on the edge of his bed and looks at Noah pointedly until the other glances over to meet the stare. He takes out his headphones and gives a pathetic smile. His clad wrist feels like it’s on display. “Yeah?”

“So where are you from?” Whelk asks.

“Oh, around here.”

“But you’re new to Aglionby?”

Noah nods.

“Thought so. I didn’t think I’d seen you before. Not many people around Aglionby wear those, so I thought I’d remember.” He gestures to Noah’s cuff and then pulls at his sleeve. For a moment Noah holds his breath, but he rolls it up only to reveal a navy blue cuff around his own wrist. Whelk makes a face, gesturing airily before tugging his sleeve back down.

Noah glances down at his wrist. “Ah, yeah.” When Whelk doesn’t make a move to speak again, Noah slowly questions, “Why do _you_ wear a cuff?”

It wasn’t unheard of that people would cover their wrists as means of protest—they’d found someone else, they simply disagreed with the idea of soulmates, they’d taken a vow of celibacy, that sort of thing. Noah is suddenly more startlingly worried than he’d ever care to admit.

Whelk sighs. “Mostly because it’s kind of embarrassing.”

_God, he’s probably a monk._

Noah cocks an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Not the name itself, but when people ask… Well, I can’t read it,” Whelk admits with a grimace.

“You can’t read it?” Noah almost laughs.

Whelk shakes his head, dramatically frowning.

“Can I see?” Noah had never asked to see someone’s soulmate mark before, especially not when they had so obviously taken measures to cover it, but this situation was unprecedented for him.

With a shrug, he pushes his sleeve back up to his elbow and yanks at the laces along his wrist. He has to use his teeth to undo the knots. “Sorry,” he mumbles, struggling, “I don’t take it off very often anymore.”

When he frees it at last, he holds his wrist out to Noah. His own handwriting is staring back at him in chaotic scribbles, and Noah just gives a breathless laugh.

“I know,” Whelk says, misinterpreting Noah’s reaction once again.

He starts to pull his wrist back, but Noah hastily says, “No, no, hold on.” He pushes himself up and sits down on the bed next to Whelk. He takes his wrist in his hand, scrutinizing the letters with narrowed eyes. The _No_ is at least clearly decipherable, he thought. The _C_ is questionable, but the _y_ looks enough like a _y_. Oh well.

“Trust me, I’ve tried, man,” Whelk says, smiling.

Noah ignores him. “This isn’t even as messy as it is most of the time. This is _neat_.”

“I’m sorry?”

He points to the letters, “I mean, that’s obviously an _N_ and an _o_. The _a_ and the _h_ are dubious, maybe, and the _C_. Possibly also debatable, but there’s the _z_ clear as day. The _e_ and _r_ and _n_ are mostly scribbles, but that is _definitely_ a _y_.”  He shakes his head incredulously.

Whelk speechlessly meets Noah’s bemused gaze. Then his eyes flick to Noah’s cuff, which Noah is already tugging at. It comes off a lot easier than Whelk’s, and he flexes his fingers with dull amusement.

“I mean, I know my signature’s not fucking _calligraphy_ , but come on.”

Whelk reaches for Noah’s wrist; he runs a finger over the familiar black letters, the letters he’d been carefully, precisely forming since before he even got his mark at thirteen. Whelk had wanted to be sure that whoever his soulmate was could clearly read his name. Good thing, too, seeing as Czerny’s was…

“Well,” he says at last, “It’s nice to meet you, Mo-sh E-zesh… y…”

“It is _not_ that messy.”

* * *

 

Whelk cannot skateboard, but he speaks Latin like he grew up with it. Noah doesn’t know anything about ley lines, but he listens better than anyone Whelk’s ever met. Noah’s shampoo smells like roses, Whelk is chewing spearmint gum most hours of most days. Whelk has a habit of lying on his back, laptop on his lap, and staring up at the ceiling for an hour before getting any schoolwork done. Noah has a habit of falling asleep with his head in his textbooks. Whelk likes to underline things two or five times. Noah doodles circles on the edges of most of his papers.  

The two of them continue to wear their cuffs in public, harboring their secret between them.

They’re friends quick, the sort of friends who don’t really notice other people, who whisper in the halls and cast each other glances across classrooms at the exact same moments, who leave notes for each other in the fog on the bathroom mirror.

They’re the type of soulmates who are friends first, who let the relationship develop like old film, staring in wonder every time something new comes to light.

 “I love that you just said that,” Whelk will say one day.

And the next, Czerny will say, “It’s fucking awesome that you do that.”

Noah likes being able to stare at someone and have them stare back.

They’re doing Latin homework today, a translation text that has Noah lying on the floor on his stomach, face in his folded arms. Whelk had started early, staring at the ceiling before Noah had even opened the book, so he was sitting next to him writing away. Occasionally he pauses to Google something, his left hand drifting to Noah’s back on these occasions.

Whelk is dragging circles between his shoulder blades when Noah speaks up, “I’m gonna fall right asleep if you keep doing this.”

“You’d fall right asleep anyway,” is the murmured response. Whelk is reading down a long, minimally decorated webpage on a nuance of conjugation.

“I hate Latin.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Sorry.” Pause. “I think I need food.”

“You said you weren’t hungry when it was actually dinner time.” Whelk is already reaching for his phone, though. It’s past seven, nearly eight by now, though this isn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence in the Whelk-Czerny dorm room.

Noah doesn’t lift his head until the pizza is delivered and Whelk is sitting down next to him once again. They both like just plain cheese pizza, which is good, because Noah isn’t really sure what good a soulmate would be if he had to compromise on pizza toppings. He pushes himself to a sitting position and crosses his legs in front of him. Whelk nudges the box towards him.

“You’re amazing,” Noah says, taking a slice.

“Well.” Whelk gives an easy shrug. They eat in silence for a few minutes before Whelk starts talking again. “So about the ley line…”

Czerny listens unobtrusively, nodding along when warranted. He’d realized very quickly that the ley line was something big in Whelk’s life, though he’d yet to really see why exactly. Noah could appreciate the puzzle aspect of it, definitely: It was fascinating, and Noah had never heard of anything like this. And though there was no real _objective_ , Whelk’s passion was infectious, at least.

“Everything says there should be a line running straight through this place,” Whelk says, sounding exasperated. “But I can’t figure out _why_ it’s not manifesting itself more. There’s little things, yes, but…” He bites his lip and tosses a pizza crust into the now-empty box.

Another thing soulmates were good for: Noah loved the pizza crusts.

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out.” After just a couple weeks, Noah was part of the ley line hunt just as much as Whelk was. And now with a couple months in, they were a _we_ in it.

He smiles. “Yeah.”

The two of them, leaned against Noah’s bed, turn to look at each other. Whelk glances down at Noah’s bare wrist. He holds his hand out, and Noah lets him take it. He does this not _often_ , but often enough that it’s become one of the things that Noah thinks about when he thinks about Barrington Whelk. Careful fingers, drifting along the soft skin of his wrist, narrowed eyes and lips slightly parted in a way that was less thoughtful, more wonder.

“I’m really glad,” he says slowly, “that this is where my name is.”

“I think you’d say that about whoever got your name, just by nature of the whole… soulmates thing,” Czerny replies, resting his head against the side of his mattress.

Whelk shakes his head. “No, it couldn’t be anywhere else.”

One of the other things Noah thinks about when he thinks about Barrington Whelk is his tendency to believe everything is more magical than it is. Everything has weight, everything is a manifestation of power. He knows that when Whelk steps onto campus and people come to talk to him, Whelk feels less like a student and more like a monarch. He knows that when Whelk opens the door to his expensive car, Whelk feels like he’s a god. To Noah, things are nice, but in the end… they’re just things. He exists apart from them, he hadn’t been born with them. Whelk puts part of himself into everything he does and has, rests his value in the things he can do, the things people see him with. Czerny had wondered if this was a character flaw at first, some kind of obsession with the materialistic, but he recognizes it as something different lately.

It’s belief. It’s hope. It’s a flair for the dramatic, and it makes Whelk find inherent value where there was none before. The ley line is an energy source, but to Whelk, it’s a throne. A play for glory that has nothing to do with a damaged self-esteem or need to prove himself. He knows there’s more out there for him, and he’s going to find it.

Likewise, soulmates are just soulmates. If it’s on their wrists, it will be true in some form or another. A lot of people mess it up, forgetting that their soulmates are people who require work and attention, but Whelk would never dream of such a thing. Whelk sees the chicken-scratch on his arm and sees Noah himself, believes Noah was always meant to be there. It’s not a signature, it’s a promise, and it isn’t something that can be changed or argued with.

When Whelk says it couldn’t be anyone but Noah Czerny, Noah knows he believes that. Because Barrington Whelk is a dramatic little shit who doesn’t do things halfway.

Noah fucking loves him.

Whelk sits up straighter, away from the bed frame. Instead of dropping Noah’s hand the way he normally does, he pulls his fingers into his. Whelk’s other hand fidgets, unsure of where to go, but looking like it wants to be doing _something_.

Noah glances between their hands and then to Whelk’s face.

Noah wonders if he’s wearing the same expression as Whelk. He hopes not, because Whelk looks like a fucking dork.

“Can I…?”

Noah blinks, for a moment confused, and then, noticing the inclination of Whelk’s face, the way his eyes keep drifting to his lips, realizes with shocking clarity. He thinks this is a stupid sentiment, asking of permission as though he’d _refuse_. Noah’s never kissed anyone before, but in response, he reaches for Whelk’s face and pulls him closer to himself.

Quickly Noah thinks that Whelk probably has kissed someone before. As though he’d been waiting a very long time, his hand knots through Noah’s white-blonde hair, his other runs along his neck. The kiss—starved lips, his tongue already at Noah’s lips, the slightest graze of teeth—knocks Noah breathless in an instant. Noah doesn’t mind that for two minutes of his life he can’t breathe, and even that is too soon, too soon.

Whelk is the one to break the kiss, though, and he rests his forehead against Noah’s, eyes shut, breath against Noah’s cheek. His hands are on Noah’s shoulders; one slides back to the back of Noah’s head.

Noah tugs at the front Whelk’s shirt, pulling him closer. Whelk hardly needs to be told; he throws a leg over Noah so that he’s straddling his lap, knees bent beneath him. Whelk’s fingers trail along the sides of Noah’s face as he sits back, taking in the look on Czerny’s face.

A breathless laugh leaves Whelk’s lips. “I’m so glad it’s you,” he whispers.

“You’re a pathetic dork.”

“And yet you’re still here, so what does that make you…?” He says under his breath before placing a kiss on Noah’s neck.

* * *

 

Noah is made of smiles. Whelk doesn’t think it’s because he’s always happy or always oblivious or anything like that, far from it; everything is just seemingly easier for Noah. Everything has a more obvious answer. The world doesn’t weigh heavily on him the way it does with Whelk. Nothing is ever as dire for Czerny; his turns aren’t as break-neck, his laughter is always closer to the front of his mouth.

It isn’t like Whelk is depressed or perpetually troubled or even much of a worrier. But everything is more serious to him. Everything is grander and greater. Whelk had wondered if Czerny’s easy-going attitude was some kind of failing, a show of lack of motivation, but it’s not that at all. It’s an acceptance of what is, a contentment with what exists and what does not.

Czerny grounds Whelk in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

Sometime during second semester, they found that ley lines can sleep, they can go dormant and need to be woken. Sometime during second semester, they started holding hands in the halls and sneaking off between classes to make-out behind buildings. Sometime during second semester, they stopped wearing their cuffs, and when it was too warm in classrooms, they rolled up their sleeves like everyone else without worry. No one really noticed except them.

They went traipsing around old fields and forests on the weekends. Noah was glad to swing around a dowsing rod to see the way Whelk’s eyes narrowed when he focused, the way he would wrap his arms around himself pensively. And Noah was very glad to kiss him in the backseat when they finished.

“We need to figure out how to wake it up,” Whelk complains, resting his forehead against the passenger-side window as Noah starts his car. “Why can’t we find out how to do that?”

Czerny sighs, tapping the steering wheel. “Someone must know. I mean, most lines are awake anyway, right? This isn’t the usual case? So probably people aren’t talking about it very much. But still.”

“I guess.”

The last few months of the school year, Whelk is completely caught up in the ley line. It’s all he talks about, and Noah finds himself doing a lot of sympathetic nodding. And a lot of cradling Whelk’s head in his lap, running his fingers through his hair, and listening, listening, as Whelk goes on and on about everything he doesn’t know.

“We’ll figure it out over the summer, when we have more free time,” Noah says, looking down at him with a soft expression. “We can travel farther. Do whatever.”

“Yeah…”

That night, they fall asleep in Noah’s bed, Whelk’s arm draped over Noah’s chest, his face pressed against his ribs. And they wake up late the next morning, but Whelk still finds time to press a kiss to Noah’s inner wrist, to his collarbone, his lips, before Noah pushes him towards the bathroom with a grin.

They roll into first period ten minutes late with still-wet hair and collars done up to the top button.

* * *

 

Whelk calls him at two in the morning one July night. Noah hadn’t been asleep yet, but he’d definitely been thinking about it. “Yeah?” he answers, flopping onto his bed and stifling a yawn.

“I think I’ve found something. The ley line needs a sacrifice.”

Noah doesn’t like the way the word sounds in Whelk’s mouth. “Sacrifice? What kind?”

“It really… doesn’t say anything more detailed.” Noah thinks he hears a book page being flipped back and forth. “Sacrifice and reciprocity. That’ll wake the ley line. Some kind of ritual? God, it doesn’t say what kind of sacrifice, but…” The excitement in his voice is bubbling. “We can wake it up.”

“Fantastic,” Noah says, smiling. “What’re we gonna sacrifice?”

“I don’t fucking know, but… I’m gonna keep looking…”

“Sure, of course. And that’s really it?”

“Yeah, I’ve read it all.”

“Hm.”

“I’m gonna look more, though,” Whelk says again. Another page flip.

“Okay, but for now, you should go to bed.”

“Oh come on, I’ve just begun.”

“Go to bed, Whelk, it’s too late. You’ll think better in the morning.”

Whelk sighs. “You’re right. Of course. You’re always right, God, you’re so smart.”

“Shut up,” Noah mutters, rolling his eyes. He’s glad the phone can only communicate his weary tone and not the blush on his cheeks. Whelk is always saying stupid shit like that, and it gets Noah every time. One of these days… “Do you wanna meet up tomorrow? Where are you?”

“Of course I wanna meet up, I want you to see this. I’m just at home, I got some books from a library.”

“What library? I thought we’d checked all of them.”

“I went to West Virginia somewhere, I dunno, it was a day trip.”

Noah scoffs. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll be over tomorrow.”

And he is. Noah pours over the huge, old volume Whelk had picked up at some library in West Virginia, and he has to admit Whelk was right about it being vague as hell. And not only is it vague, the words are tiny and fading in some places, and honestly, where did a public library pick up a number like this? Noah gives an elusive noise when he finishes reading the part Whelk had indicated.

“So?”

“I don’t know,” Noah admits, pushing the book away. “Does it mean like… animal sacrifice?” The thought makes Noah’s stomach churn.

“I don’t know.” Whelk runs his hands over the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

“It also said reciprocity… like a trade.” Noah folds his legs in front of him. “What do you trade with a magical energy line? Who are we even trading or sacrificing _to_?”

“I don’t know, Czerny.”

“Does it have to be something physical?”

“I don’t know!” Whelk cries. “Just… stop. Stop asking questions.”

“Sorry,” Noah replies, edge in his voice.

Whelk rubs his eyes, sighing. “No, shit, I didn’t mean to—I just don’t know anything more than you do. Okay? So just…”

There’s a long silence, Whelk deep in thought, Czerny tapping his fingers against his knees. He doesn’t know what Whelk wants to do from here. He doesn’t like the idea of playing around with magical sacrifice.

Finally he speaks up, “Maybe it’s too much, Whelk…”

“ _No_. No way. We’re gonna figure it out.”

“But it could be dangerous.”

“We’re not gonna rush into anything, shit. But we’re not gonna give up either.”

“Whelk…”

“If you’re fucking afraid or something, you don’t have to do it anymore.” The words are lashing out of his mouth before he can think about them. Whelk simmers, furious until he looks back at Czerny.

Noah doesn’t look hurt or even angry. He looks confused.

Whelk parts his lips to continue, but fumbles for what to say.

“We’re doing this together,” Noah whispers. “It’s _our_ puzzle. I’ll help you figure it out, okay? But I’m not letting you do any stupid shit. I’m not—” He gestures feebly towards Whelk’s wrist. “I’m not letting you do anything stupid.” He shakes his head, bangs falling into his eyes. “Fucking sacrifice.” He gives a dry laugh. “ _God_.”

“I just—”

“Don’t act like an idiot, okay?” Noah says sharply. “Find out more about the sacrifice. Find out what to do. But don’t do anything besides research in the meantime. Don’t make me be your mother.”

Whelks nods mutely. Then he moves closer to Noah, even though he won’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t mean to shout at you.” Whelk’s voice is soft, barely audible.

“I know,” Czerny responds rigidly.

“I’m sorry.”

Noah’s eyes fall. “It’s okay. I know you have to find it.”

“That doesn’t mean I can be mean to you.”

Noah hates himself when a smile touches his lips. He was trying to be angry. “No, it doesn’t.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Mm.”

“I won’t do anything before I’ve figured it out. And I’d like if you could help me with that. We’d work faster.” He tentatively reaches for Noah’s cheek; he doesn’t protest. Whelk runs his thumb over his cheekbone, his jaw. “I’m glad it’s you.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Noah whines, “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“I was trying to be mad at you for like. Five minutes. Five minutes to be mad at you. That’s all I wanted.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone for a moment.”

“Five minutes.”

“I’ll leave you alone for five minutes, then.” He scoots backwards and folds his hands in his lap.

“Good.” But he’s smiling.

Noah pulls out his phone. He doesn’t really have anything to do on it, but he watches the clock tick by. Whelk is sitting a foot or two away from him, waiting patiently. He looks ridiculous; Noah can’t look at him too long. For two minutes, he successfully avoids eye contact, but then he accidentally glances upwards and sees Whelk, twiddling his thumbs, face innocent.

“God!” Noah cries, exasperated. He reaches up onto Whelk’s bed and throws a pillow in his face before he has a chance to protect himself. “I hate you.”

“ _What_?” he asks, laughing. He throws the pillow back at Noah, who catches it and drops it on his lap.

“Don’t look like that.” A pause. “I’m done being mad at you now.”

“Thank God.” And he sounds genuinely relieved.

And not two minutes later, Whelk has his hands up Noah’s shirt and his lips between his own. Czerny has to bite his tongue when Whelk drags kisses along his stomach and hipbones, as he tugs at his jeans with wandering hands. Whelk, on the other hand, doesn’t bother with keeping quiet when Noah pushes him onto his back. (“Your parents are going to hear us!” Czerny gasps, laughing. “They wouldn’t dare,” Whelk replies, lacing his fingers more tightly through Noah’s hair.) And everything is forgiven, just like that. Because that’s the way they are, and anger really isn’t the emotion Noah’s best at.

* * *

 

The summer reveals nothing new in the way of ley line sacrifices. School starts again. Czerny and Whelk return to their dorm room. Sometimes Noah forgets the ley line; Whelk never does. He starts forgetting to finish homework assignments instead, even though he saw Noah doing them the night before. He zones out at unpredictable times. Noah worries.

Whelk has been scrolling through the internet for hours. Probably three. Four? All looking for something on the ley line. He visits sites he’s already read all the way through, sketchy forums, and weird blogs. His eyes are wide. They’re tired.

Noah shuffles up to his bed and crawls in next to him. “What’re you doing, Whelk?” he whispers.

“Reading.”

With a careful hand, Noah puts two fingers against Whelk’s chin and pulls his face towards him. His lips are pulled down to a frown. “Take a break,” Noah says.

Whelk just sighs.

Noah closes the laptop and pulls it from him. He sets it on the floor, never taking his eyes off Whelk. He’s very worried.

“If we never find the answer…” Noah starts.

“Don’t say that.”

He pushes on, “We’ll be okay. It’ll be okay if we never find the answer. It’ll be okay if it takes us twenty years. Doesn’t matter. Okay? We’re okay without it. Yeah?”

Whelk looks miserable, and he doesn’t sound convinced when he breathes, “Yeah.”

With a drawn-out groan, Whelk sinks down to lie on his back, pushing his hands back into his hair. Noah props himself up on an elbow.

“I’ve put in too much work for it to be nothing.”

Noah stays silent.

“If nothing happens with it, what then? I’m just supposed to move on?” His eyes are trained on the ceiling, unwavering. “I picked one thing to obsess over, and I’m just gonna? Fail? At this one thing?”

“You’re good at so many things.”

“What? Latin?”

“Yeah, that’s fucking impressive.”

“And what am I gonna do with that? Be a teacher?”

“You don’t have to do anything with it, it’s enough that you’re just… really good. And you haven’t failed with that.”

“Shut up about Latin.” It comes out on an exhale, weak words that dissipate into the air.

“You’re good at kissing.”

Whelk gives a weak laugh.

“You’re really perseverant.”

“I won’t be if I give up on the ley line.”

“No, you still will be.”

He just grunts.

“I’d like you even if you weren’t good at anything.”

“That’s a lie,” but his tone is light.

Noah runs his fingers along Whelk’s chest and then down along his arm. He knots his fingers in Whelk’s and then sinks down to his side. He lifts their hands in the air. Noah turns his hand so he can see Whelk’s wrist.

“This is completely legible.”

“It’s a mess, Czerny. Your parents never told you to write neatly so your name would be easy to read?”

“Nah, they did. But I like to be mysterious.”

Whelk scoffs. He still looks anxious.

* * *

 

“Does this make you white trash now?”

“Unlock your door. We’re doing the ritual.”

Noah does unlock the door, but he doesn’t take his foot off the brake. “Whelk…”

With his shaking hands, it takes Whelk two tries to get his seatbelt on. An unnecessary precaution, seeing as there wasn’t much left of him anyway, and it might be a blessing if he got thrown through the windshield headfirst. His words are venomous, “We’re doing the goddamn ritual, now _drive_.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Czerny. Drive the car.”

“What are you going to sacrifice?”

“I’ll figure it out when we get there,” he snarls.

“You don’t have anything with you, what could you possibly be sacrificing?”

“It probably doesn’t have to be physical.”

“This is a bad idea.”

Whelk brings his hand down on the dash hard. “I don’t fucking care. What the _fuck_ else am I gonna do at this point?” He hits the dash again, harder, with his fist now. “I need this goddamn ley line to wake up and give me something. _I need to try something_. _And I need you to drive me there_.”

Noah’s heart lurches, but he can’t do anything. He knows, factually, what Whelk is feeling just because he knows Barrington Whelk. What he cannot do is relate to the depth he’s sunken. His fingers are trembling, his anger sounds less like anger and more like grief. When has he ever been able to deny Whelk anything?

“Where to?” His voice is hollow.

“The oak grove.”

Noah drives.

Whelk keels over in the passenger seat, hands wrapped around the back of his neck. He slams a fist into the door, and then pulls at his hair. Noah tries not to look.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He drives.

It’s a thirty-minute drive to the oaks, and neither of them say a word to each other the entire time. Noah tries really hard not to hear Whelk’s ragged breathing.

Whelk doesn’t look up when the car stops, but he takes a deep breath. Noah takes the keys out of the ignition and just sits, eyes on the radio dials, trying to look anywhere but at Whelk.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Noah’s voice is little more than a whisper.

“No.”

“Then _don’t_.”

“I need to.” He puts his hand on the door handle, takes another heavy breath, and then pushes the door open.

Noah follows silently.

Whelk takes one step away from the door but then has to backtrack to lean against the car when the movement makes him go light-headed. He looks up to the grey sky. It’s a hot day, but humid and cloudy. Noah’s hands feel sweaty, not entirely from the weather. He takes a few hesitant steps in Whelk’s direction. When he’s a step or two away, Whelk holds out his hand.

Noah takes it, and Whelk pulls him in.

“Let me help you,” Noah says, voice cracking. “You don’t need the line, let me.”

Dejectedly, Whelk wraps his arms around Noah’s waist and rests his forehead against his shoulder. Whelk is taller than Noah, but the way he’s slumped against the car changes that a little. Noah presses a kiss to his temple. A breathy noise comes from Whelk.

“Everything’s gone, Czerny.”

“Not everything.” He sounds desperate.

“Everything disappears eventually, doesn’t it, though?”

“That’s some unnecessarily depressing shit, and it’s not even fucking true, no.”

Whelk’s arms tighten around him before he pulls back. Something in Whelk’s eyes makes Noah lift his wrist ever so slightly; Whelk gives a pained breath of laughter, lamenting his predictability. He takes Czerny’s wrist and presses a kiss to it, eyes fluttering shut.

“I need to go. _We_ need to go to the…”

Noah catches his lips in a haphazard kiss, reaching him just before Whelk could turn towards the trees. At first Whelk seems hesitant, but he kisses back after a split second. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Noah mumbles against his lips, “Please don’t do anything stupid.”

“It might be stupid. Please don’t hate me.”

“I’m not gonna hate you, but I’ll be pretty pissed if you get yourself hurt.”

This solicits a dry sort of sob from Whelk. He places his hands on Noah’s chest and forces him back a step. Head dropped, he makes for the woods. Noah trails behind, knotting his fingers together, eyes darting every which way.

They get to the clearing they’d visited a number of times. Whelk immediately starts digging symbols into the earth, arranging rocks, kicking things out of the way. Noah has no idea what he’s doing. He must have found more information about how the ritual should go without telling him. Something inside him feels out of place.

Nothing in Whelk’s posture is sure. His movements are jerky, his eyes are out of focus. His face is too pale. He might be imagining it, but he thinks Whelk keeps looking at his wrist. Noah idly, fretfully runs his fingers over his own tattoo.

At last, Whelk tosses aside the stick he’d been using to carve the earth. Shoulders slumped, knees weak, he turns and looks at Czerny, who has his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Whelk’s face is painted in blatant melancholy.

“What are you going to sacrifice, Whelk?”

They stare across the clearing at each other for the longest minute they’ve ever lived. Instead of answering Noah, Whelk turns his eyes to the treetops and shouts, “Are you listening?” There’s a flurry of movement in the leaves that can’t be coming from birds or squirrels. There’s something here, and they can both feel it. They’d felt a whisper of something here before, but not like this: The line was listening.

Noah tries again to stop him, “You don’t know what it can do, Whelk.”

“We’ll fucking see what it can do.” He sounds like he’s trying to sound angry, but an undertone of dread cuts through, the same thing Noah’d heard earlier, as obvious to him as if he’d been able to see it.

Noah has had enough. He rushes forward and grabs Whelk around his forearm. He jerks him towards the edge of the shape he’s drawn—a pentagram, he sees now. Whelk stumbles, but holds fast.

“Let go of me, Czerny.” Something’s changed, because now he just sounds wretched; there’s no pretending to be angry here. It’s all misery. He pries Noah’s fingers off and shoves him to the ground. “I have a sacrifice to make.” He’s talking once again to the line, voice raised. There’s a prickling at his skin that isn’t coming from the wind.

“Stop,” Noah pleads, pushing himself to his feet. This time, though, he makes no moves towards Whelk. “Whatever you’re gonna do, _stop it_.”

Whelk had said he’d figure it out once he got there, but the truth was, he’d known all day. Whelk had run through a thousand times how he was gonna word the sacrifice, though he didn’t like any of them. He didn’t know how long the ley line would listen, how much he could request. _Request_. What a ludicrous term for what he was about to do. He was going to do damage, but he could try to repair it some. Seemingly by making it worse, but perhaps, in the end, for the better.

For the better for Noah. Not for Whelk.

Whelk was shit out of luck in any case.

“I sacrifice my relationship with Noah Czerny.”

There’s a noise like birds screaming.

“ _What_?”

Whelk continues, though his voice wavers, “Give him a different soulmate, take him away from me. Make him forget me, write a new name on his wrist, take his off mine, _something_.”

“Whelk, you _cannot_.” Noah sounds pissed off, confused. Hurt. There’s a noise in the air that’s different from before; a low hum, a buzz of consideration. Noah steps towards Whelk, “The ley line can’t do that, it doesn’t have any control over that!”

Whelk didn’t have it in him to consider this possibility. “I’m so sorry, Czerny, but you’ll get someone else.”

“I don’t _want_ someone else!”

“I’m so glad it was you. I have to wake the line.”

“You _don’t_! You fucking don’t have to do it this way, wait and we’ll—” Czerny makes a move to grab at Whelk, but he’s knocked off his feet before he can complete the action.

It was too late. There was no changing the sacrifice now.

Noah gets thrown backwards by some invisible force. He hits the ground on his back, breath getting knocked from his lungs. He cries out in pain. Whelk turns sharply to look, knot twisting in his stomach. Surely this must be what’s supposed to happen. He’d been clear enough.

But then Noah’s hands get thrown to either side of his body, pinned to the dirt, straight out like a crucifix. He looks like he’s screaming, but there’s only a muffled noise coming from his lips.

Whelk had not been sure what would happen, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to look like this. He steps forward, feet unsteady. But the line had _heard_ him. A tremor wracks through Czerny.

 _This isn’t right_. The thought comes uninvited.

Noah is digging his feet into the dirt, tearing up grass but doing no good. His chest is heaving in a way Whelk has never seen before.

He begins to panic. “What are you doing?” he whispers. “You’re hurting him.”

There’s a hissing that seeps into the air.

Noah’s scream tears through the din, and this time it’s the crispest, clearest noise Whelk’s ever heard.

This isn’t right.

Whelk stumbles over his own feet, charging towards Czerny, whose legs are scrambling, pushing dirt up in every direction. He can’t move anything else. Whelk is a foot from him when he hits something he can’t see and crumbles to the ground. He throws a fist forward, only to meet the barrier again.

Whelk’s lungs feel like they’re filled with smoke, water, sand. He’s forgotten how to breathe. His every nerve ending is fried. And he cannot comprehend what he’s seeing. _This isn’t what I said_. _This isn’t what I said_.

Red. Red, so much red. Pouring out of Noah’s wrists, his mouth. And Whelk saw very clearly where it began: At his name, seeping out of the black ink that adorned Noah’s wrist.

Noah’s head snaps to the side as though he’d been slapped. He coughs up something dark. It looks too dark to be blood. It’s so dark, so terribly, appallingly black.

“ _This isn’t what I said_!” Whelk screams, feeling like his vocal chords could snap from the volume of his own voice. “ _Stop_!”

He bangs his hands against the barrier until it suddenly blows outwards, sending him skidding through the dirt. It delays him but for a second before he’s scrambling for Noah. He can’t get to his feet properly, and he half-drags himself through the dirt. Before he can get there, Noah’s torso seems to get shoved deeper into the earth, as though something heavy had slammed into his chest; his legs bicycle. There’s a horrible wheezing noise coming from his lips.

Nothing prevents Whelk from falling next to Noah this time.

“Oh my god, oh my god.”

Everything becomes so appallingly clear; he thinks he’s going to throw up. Czerny had been right. The ley line couldn’t change soulmates. But instead of politely informing Whelk that this was outside its sphere, it had simplified his sacrifice and taken the only thing it could.

He cups his hand along Noah’s face. Noah’s eyes are wide, watering; his mouth is open, his lips discolored with blood. His pale skin is stained red.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes, but he wants to take it back the moment it’s out of his mouth. It isn’t enough and he knows it, they both know it.

Noah’s lips are trembling. His wrists are apparently still pinned to the earth. Or maybe he’s just too weak to move them. His wrists are red, all red. Whelk doesn’t want to know if his name is still there somewhere. He’s afraid to look at his own wrist.

But before he can worry about that, there’s a pressure on his chest. He gets forced backwards for the second time, but this time it feels like there’s something on top of him. The air is being stolen from his lungs.

 _Is it going to take him next_? God, he can only hope. It’s exactly what he would deserve, _God_. God, goddamn, goddamn it.

But instead he feels the earth buckling beneath him, something distinctly unhuman burning inside his chest. He tries to scream, but no sound comes out. His fingers feel like they’re burning from tip to knuckle.

“Czerny,” he moans, “I’m so sorry.”

Because suddenly he can feel Czerny dying. He can feel the life leaving his body like he’s never felt anything else before. It feels as real and as palpable as the grass against his skin, as harsh as the wind blowing faster than it was a moment ago.

It’s something so physical it’s suffocating.

He tries to push back.

But the sensation is rolling against him like waves. He thinks in another life he might have been able to shove back, but not here.

He hears the whispering in the leaves, feels the trees’ roots pulsing below the ground.

He recognizes the fire shredding through his body as being the ley line. He knows it like fact. There it was, the thing he’d worked for, and it was making him sick. He rolls onto his side to look at Noah. His chest isn’t moving, his arm is bent at a sickly angle. Whelk’s heart gives a devastatingly harsh thud the moment Noah takes his last breath.

A quell of something surges through his body, and Noah Czerny’s name is still etched onto his wrist.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) i started out thinking "what if whelk had never intended for noah's death to be the sacrifice" and everything spiraled from there  
> 1.5) "czerny's impossible handwriting"
> 
> 2) "charon" by keaton henson 
> 
> 3) hmu on tumblr @ helengansey


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